


the subtle grace of gravity

by hikaie



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: AU, Chef AU, F/F, Food, restaurant AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-16
Updated: 2014-07-16
Packaged: 2018-02-09 03:19:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1967037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hikaie/pseuds/hikaie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The elusive Allison Argent was the fourth and current owner of <i>Argent</i>. She’d worked here for the past fourteen years, starting out as a busser for her parents and working her way up to the ranks of an excellent chef. Lydia had seen her recipes and restaurant referenced on popular food and travel media, in magazines, and in reviews. She’d even heard rumors a few months back about Argent being invited onto <i>Iron Chef: America</i>. With all the fuss, obviously Lydia had to try the food and meet the chef behind it.</p><p>[AU]</p>
            </blockquote>





	the subtle grace of gravity

**Author's Note:**

> Ugh okay so it's been... a while since I've put out anything of substance. Anyway, M for the possibility of me taking this into touchy regions later on (highly likely), tags are not definitive. And since it's been so long, don't expect regular updates just yet, though maybe I can have this finished in a few weeks. Here we gooooo.
> 
> Title is from [You Are the Moon](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TpUP0jjicqY) by the Hush Sound.

                “Stiles!” Allison barked, waving her free hand at him. “How many times do I have to tell you, _hairnet!_ ”

                He groaned low and long and stuffed the item over his head, bustling along the long row of plates along the other side of the counter. She shook her head fondly; seriously, they’d been over this. Shaved head didn’t mean anything in her kitchen when she knew just how fast his damn hair tended to grow back.

                “I look stupid.” He hissed.

                “Oh, dear, you don’t need a hairnet to achieve that look.” She batted her eyelashes at him and turned her attention back to the salmon in the pan. God it smelled great. This recipe was an Argent classic; gently pan-seared salmon with a delicate butter and tarragon sauce over a turnip and lentil ragoût. They sold a few dozen of this dish a night and Allison constantly went home with the smell of fish and herbs clinging to her work clothes.

                “Scott, I need the tartiflette for tables seven and thirteen out of the oven in ten and Jackson, I need them on the table in no less than five following. Stiles, get the poireaux vina- _for Christ’s sake keep your hairnet on!-_ and get the poireaux out of the stockpot and out to tables eleven, four and three.”

                Allison took a sharp breath and took the salmon off the heat, immediately switching over to a bowl of julienned vegetable salad that was to be tossed with a rémoulade. She _lived_ for this. Not everyone was happy with following in the footsteps of the family business. And as a teenager Allison had at one time detested the idea of following in the footsteps of her mother and grandfather. At that point she had already slaved years away bussing tables and waitressing busy nights to learn the family trade and it all felt so dull and useless. She hadn’t been able to imagine a future working the frontline of a (successful, admittedly) restaurant.

                But then one night after closing while they were cleaning up, her mother had her tend to the pans as she fetched Allison’s father for dinner. They ate at the restaurant often in those days. She’d been frozen for a while, plagued with the paranoid fear of ruining family classics, dishes that came from decades past. She’d seen her mom prepare this dish a thousand times though- lamb navarin, a simple stew that had filled her childhood as her parents worked late nights and grandpa Argent lazily cooked at the stove. So it was that when her mother returned and tasted the stew, she had clasped Allison’s cheeks and smiled. Not her all-business, sharp edges and death smile; it was a true smile of pride.

                Family business or no, Allison had worked damn hard to get to this point. The restaurant was all hers. Mom and dad had retired to France some years ago and left it in her capable hands; hands that had worked as sous chef for many tiresome years before making it to head line cook, and even more years before she had taken position as head chef.

                “ _Shit_ , Allison!” Snapping out of her nostalgic reverie, Allison looked up as Jackson skittered into the kitchen, eyes wide and mouth partially agape.

                “What did you do, Jackson?”

                “I didn’t!” He started, but was interrupted when Stiles’ head appeared in the doorway as well. He looked pale. “Allison there’s…”

                “Spit it out or get back to work!”

                “Lydia Martin just took a seat at table seventeen.”

                The salad slowly fell from Allison’s hands back into the bowl. “ _Fuck_.”

* * *

 

                Lydia crossed her legs at the ankle and settled into the plush chair. The ambience here was nice- a quiet hum of dinner conversation, a few chuckles and the quiet but sonorous laughter of a table of businessmen three tables over. The lighting was low, but not romantically so. Lydia smiled to herself at the harried looks of the servers around her, especially her own waiter. She ordered water- wine was excellent with French fare, but Lydia preferred to keep a clean palette.

                Idly, she tapped her pen against her notebook. She’d already perused the menu online ahead of time. _Argent_ was a well-established traditional French cuisine restaurant in Sacramento, California. Lydia had heard good things- excellent things in fact. Family owned and run for four generations, the last two of which had been women. Recipes that traced back to France itself. And, if she was being honest, Lydia was incredibly interested in the chef and aforementioned owner.

                The elusive Allison Argent was the fourth and current owner of _Argent_. She’d worked here for the past fourteen years, starting out as a busser for her parents and working her way up to the ranks of an excellent chef. Lydia had seen her recipes and restaurant referenced on popular food and travel media, in magazines, and in reviews. She’d even heard rumors a few months back about Argent being invited onto _Iron Chef: America_. With all the fuss, obviously Lydia had to try the food and meet the chef behind it.

                Lydia had gotten into the business of being a critic at the tender age of 21. She’d been raised in a small town with a dad who wasn’t around and a mom who coddled her. Often times underestimated in the intelligence department due to her looks, Lydia had spent the better part of high school in and on-again, off-again relationship with the local bad boy jock to stave off unwelcome suitors and to focus on her studies. (It was only coincidental, of course, that he would end up working for her current item of scrutiny.) Regardless, Lydia had cut him off officially when she’d gone to college in New York. She was beautiful and a genius. There was little she couldn’t do, and she had high hopes. Far reaching dreams. Science, engineering, mathematics. Lay it in front of her and she could conquer it.

                Then she’d gotten drunk and made a blog at four in the morning to rant about the awful food and service at a local dive. Her eloquent language with sprinkles of colorful vocabulary earned her a cult following. Soon enough, she was elevated from viral internet sensation to reliable and knowledgeable critic. She’d built a name for herself over the past five years. So, she understood why the chef herself came out to take her order.

                “It’s a pleasure to meet you ma’am. How may I be of service to you tonight?”

                Lydia smiled primly and let her pen come to a rest on her notebook. “To start, I’d like the leek and potato soup. To follow I’d like your lapin à la moutarde accompanied by the pommes boulangéres. After that I’ll have your boeuf aux carottes and poireaux vinaigrette. And I’d like to end with your pear tarte tatin.” Allison nodded in response and quickly scuttled back off to the kitchen. Lydia let her smile drop and reached to take a sip of her water.

                The chef was cuter than she’d expected.

* * *

 

                She sat back, absolutely full to the brim. Normally when she ordered a selection so large for review, she merely sampled each dish. But every time, Allison came out to hand deliver each dish, and every time, Lydia found each dish far too delicious to let any morsel go to waste. So it was that she ended up uncomfortably full with half of a pear tarte tatin still in front of her. All other patrons had left the restaurant long ago and now the staff was cleaning up around her. As she looked up, the motion of which made her nauseous, Allison exited the kitchen and headed for her table once more.

                “Have you enjoyed the meal?”

                Lydia grinned and pushed her dessert away. Allison’s face fell. “My compliments to the chef.” Lydia said simply.

                As her plates were cleared, she packed away her notebook, filled with half-complete thoughts and short hand notes that would make sense to no one but her. She saw Jackson hovering by the entrance to the kitchen, and from the open door she heard the excited chatter of the restaurant staff within. If that was Allison’s laugh she was hearing, well…

                Lydia just might have to eat here again.

**Author's Note:**

> I looked this over while I was writing it and once again when I was done so hopefully I caught most errors. I promise, there will be actual interaction between characters next chapter! ...maybe. Also I like to pretend I know a lot about food but I just Googled classic french cuisine so take that as you will.


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